![]() ![]() No one could have.īut the commotion started behind a dismal little rented farmhouse just south of Fred Potter’s place-a flapping, a fluttering, a free-for-all, and then a cry, a long, eerie shriek, an echoing, slobbering wail that raced into the forest like a train whistle through a town, loud, muffled, loud, muffled, moving this way and that through the trees like a hunted animal then a flash of light, a fireball, blinking and burning through the forest, moving with blinding speed, right behind that siren, almost on top of it. The fields and farms right across the Toe Springs–Claytonville Road were getting warmer and greener with each day, and now the evening breeze was carrying a lot of mid-April smells-apple and cherry blossoms, plowed dirt, a little mud, some cattle, some manure. Two retirees sat in their chairs in front of the barbershop, putting in their idle hours. The lights were winking out in the local mercantile. Myers’s son was bringing all the lawn mowers and tillers in for the night at the Myers Feed and Farm Store. All the employees at the Bergen Door Company had clocked out, and the security guard was checking the locks. ![]() The workday was over, supper was on in most of the homes, the stores were locking up, the tavern was filling up. Bacon’s Corner was nothing special, just one of those little farming towns far from the interstate, nothing more than a small hollow dot on the AAA road map, with exit signs that offered gas, no lodging, maybe a little food if the place was open, and little more. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |